Mara, Daughter of the Nile

by Eloise Jarvis McGraw

  “. . . looked like a man who’d just seen a kheft face to face,” one voice was saying. “I do not jest, my friend. Something’s happened between Her Radiance and the Architect.”

  “He didn’t speak to you?”

  “Nay, he was in too much haste! He burst out of her chambers as if the Devourer were after him, and went by me without a glance. I heard him snarling for his chariot, outside, but I didn’t stay to wave farewell. The climate’s not healthy when he’s in a rage!”

  “Ai, I hope he strangles on it,” muttered the other. “Last flood season he took five of my vineyards for Crown property—by royal permission. But I note his slaves are cultivating them now.”

  “He’ll want the throne next, hark to my words. Ten years from now . . .”

  The voices faded as the two went out the other gate. Mara drew a long breath and glanced up at Sheftu, who seemed to have derived a great deal of malicious pleasure from what he had heard. “Who was it?” she whispered.

  “Two nobles who love Count Senmut as much as I,” returned Sheftu drily. “Count Kha-Kheper, the one who talked about the vineyards. I believe I had best arrange a little conference with him sometime soon. Now look you, Blue-Eyed One, we must be out of here. I’ll not be at the inn tonight, so you need not come. But tomorrow night—”

  “It is tomorrow that . . . ?” Mara did not finish, but searched his face anxiously.

  “Aye,” he whispered. “Tomorrow at the mark of five, the messenger told me. It should be finished in two hours, if all goes well.”

  “If all goes well!” she repeated bitterly.

  He ignored that. “So get thee to the tavern by the mark of seven, or as soon after as you are able. Is your Reshed still well bedazzled?”

  “So I hope. He’s tugging at his leash.”

  “Ai, you’ll have no trouble—one so clever as you, so remarkable, so sagacious—”

  “Oh, leave off!” But her scowl faded as he stood there laughing down at her, the sun flecks dancing crazily over his face and headcloth, and glinting into one jewel in his golden collar until it flashed like a star. “I’ll be there, by his leave or without it,” she murmured. “May the gods grant you will! Sheftu, take care!”

  “Little one, I’ll do my best.” He guided her gently back to her stool. “Sit here now and let the goldfish admire you awhile. Give me about the count of a hundred. Farewell.”

  He slipped around the edge of the vine-clad wall and was gone. Mara could hear his footsteps on the gravel path, calm and unhurried. She did not look up, fixing her attention instead on the fat, red goldfish drifting lazily in and out between the lotus stems in the depths of the pool. It would never do to think of where he was going, what he must do before she saw him again—if she ever did.

  By the time she had counted the goldfish three times over, the garden had been empty for some time. She rose, went out into the glare of afternoon, and walked slowly across the garden toward the palace.

  PART 5

  THE RING

  CHAPTER 16

  The Gamble

  The servants were laying the tables in the yellow-paneled dining room of the princess’ suite before Inanni returned from her mysterious “errand”—and by that time Mara had thought long and uneasily about her absence. What did she really know of Inanni, save that she was homesick and unhappy? Very little, or the princess’ sudden withdrawal this afternoon would not have taken her so by surprise. Mara did not like surprises. The moment had arrived, she reflected, to converse in private with Inanni.

  Accordingly, as soon as the meal was over and the Syrian women, still licking honey from their plump fingers, had wandered into the big sitting room to chatter or do needlework, Mara invited the princess to view the sunset with her from the roof pavilion.

  A few minutes later they were emerging onto the breeze-swept loggia. Above them the sky flamed with sunset, trailing scarlet banners of cloud and tinging with pink the myriad white walls and buildings of the city spread out below. Even the Nile looked like a river of fire, set between banks of unnaturally vivid green.

  “Beautiful!” exclaimed Inanni as they stood at the balustrade looking out upon it all. But there was a note of dismay in her voice, and she soon retreated to a couch under the partial shelter of one of the painted awnings. Mara, who was accustomed to the violent beauty of Egypt, lingered a moment to feast her eyes on it.

  “It is very different,” she said softly, “from the sunsets of Canaan, I suppose?”

  “Aye, everything there seems softer, and the hills thrust up to hide part of the sky, so that it does not seem so huge and fiery, and one does not feel so small. . . . Mara, perhaps it is not wise to talk of Canaan.”

  “Very well,” said Mara firmly, turning around to her. “Then let us talk of something else. My princess, why did you leave me in the garden today?”

  “Why, because I—had an errand—” Inanni’s great dark eyes met Mara’s, and their expression changed. “So be it,” she said quietly. “It was because of what I told you, Mara. That young man did not want to talk to me, nor I to him. He was seeking you.”

  After a moment Mara left the balustrade and sat down on the other end of the couch. “How long have you known this?”

  “Since the day I first saw him, in the lotus garden. Mara—I know other things, too. I know the king has no interest in me, nor ever will, and when I have audience with him he does not speak of the things you say he does. There is a great trouble of some sort here, and I have somehow become part of it. Forgive me, I did not even mean to tell you of this, but today I suddenly—it seemed too burdensome to go through again. I should not have spoken of it, though.”

  “Why not? Why didn’t you tell me long ago?”

  “Well, it—I felt it would be easier for you if I pretended I knew nothing, so that you would not be troubled about that part of it. But I fear I am very poor at pretending. Forgive me if I have spoiled everything now . . .”

  Mara sat silent, wonderingly studying the plump, anxious face before her. “It is you who must forgive me, my princess,” she said at last. “You have shown me exactly how clever I have been!” She got up and walked to the balustrade again, but this time she did not see the red sky and the thousand roofs of Thebes. Inanni had been sorry for her—for her. It was a strange sensation, entirely new in her experience, and bewildering. She wondered in some astonishment if she were going to cry, then decided that by rights she should be laughing, hard—laughing at herself. She turned to Inanni, and knew suddenly that she wanted to tell her everything, tumble out the whole story, and plead for understanding. To take down the bars just once, and let another human being in . . .

  “Do you—want to hear the rest?” she heard herself saying in a small voice.

  “If you want to tell me, Mara.”

  “I do, but it’s mad. They’ll kill me if they find out.”

  Inanni’s cheeks grew pale, but she spoke quietly. “They will never find out from me, Mara.”

  “It would matter to no one—save myself,” said Mara with bitterness. “I’m naught but a slave. All my fine clothes and my airs are borrowed property. Not four weeks ago I was starching shentis and stealing bread from the baker’s boys in Menfe.” Mara walked back to the couch, kicked off her sandals defiantly, and curled her feet under her. “And getting thrashed for it, as always. The whole thing began, for me, that day. A stranger in a white cloak came into my master’s courtyard. . . .”

  It was easy, once she started. She talked rapidly, though in a low voice, explaining her sale, the astonishing interview with her master afterward, her meeting with Sheftu on the Beetle, and all that had happened since. Inanni’s dark eyes grew round with wonder, excitement, and anxiety as she listened. Beyond them, over Thebes, the wild red banners in the sky faded to murky rose, and the East darkened, but neither of them knew it.

  “So it is a—revolution!”
whispered Inanni at last.

  “Aye. And here am I, tangled in both sides of it! At first all seemed simple—I had but to mention Sheftu’s name to my master, and he would shower me with gold, give me my freedom. But now—” Mara hesitated, then added reluctantly, “Of course, naught is different now. I could mention it still.”

  “But you do not want to now,” said Inanni softly.

  “Nay, I do not want to now. I am a fool, am I not?”

  Inanni shook her head. “You are in love with this Lord Sheftu.”

  Denial sprang to Mara’s lips, and died there as her gaze encountered Inanni’s. She ended by shrugging wearily, leaning back against the cushions. “Little good it does me. He thinks me a guttersnipe, and says so. And tomorrow he may be—” She stopped. She had not told Inanni about the tomb robbery, nor did she intend to. “He cares only for his king,” she finished.

  “You do too, Mara. You want the king to be pharaoh.”

  Mara nodded. “As I say, I’m a fool. Why in Amon’s name should I fret over who rules Egypt? There is always a pharaoh, just as there is always a Nile, but such a maid as I could live her whole life without knowing which face it was beneath the double crown, or caring a fig if she did know! Hatshepsut—Thutmose—what does it matter? I’ve my own worries—” She broke off, adding, “The trouble is, it does matter.”

  “Perhaps it is because you know him now.”

  “Perhaps it is,” said Mara slowly. “Aye, and because I have watched him, and talked to him, and seen him pacing up and down, like a lion in a cage—Ai, he is a conqueror, my princess! Who else would have had the wit to stage that miracle, or go on plotting a revolution with spies all about him—”

  “Or spared a moment to be kind to a princess he does not want,” said Inanni with a smile.

  She meant the vase. Mara was suddenly very happy about the vase. “Aye, he is kind, too. He is a great man!” And you, she told herself a moment later, are becoming far more interested in him than is good for you! Take care, or you’ll fall under his spell like Sheftu, and throw your life and all your plans away.

  She got up angrily and padded over to the balustrade again, where she stood watching the last glow over the hills and curling her bare toes against the cool pavements of the roof.

  “I’m a fool all the same,” she remarked as Inanni came up beside her. “Will Thutmose ever notice or remember that I served him? Ast! All pharaohs are alike.”

  “I know little of pharaohs,” said Inanni. “But I have seen the queen—and I have seen the king. And they are not alike.”

  “Aye, but they are! Look yonder.” Mara pointed westward, where Hatshepsut’s graceful temple shimmered in the blue shadows under the cliff. “Men died by hundreds in the quarries to cut those stones for her, and others sailed to the end of the world to bring back the little incense trees. I know, I have been told of it. Yet tomorrow the king sends Sheftu—Sheftu, his nearest friend—on a journey far more terrible. . . .”

  “Perhaps there is no one else he can trust.”

  “And perhaps Sheftu will never come back! More than perhaps! Then what good is he to the king or anyone else? Ai, there is a fool for you!—to do that for any pharaoh. I told him so only last night.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Mara’s anger faded into puzzled wonder as she remembered what he had said. “He spoke nonsense. He said, ‘I do not do it for pharaoh, I do it for Egypt.’ What does that mean? Pharaoh is Egypt.” She shrugged. “I didn’t understand it then nor do I now.”

  “I understand it, Mara.”

  Mara looked at her curiously, and found that her whole timid face was shining with eagerness, like a pale, round moon gleaming through the dark clouds of her hair. In the blue light of evening she looked almost beautiful in her shawls and draperies. “You understand?” repeated Mara slowly. “Then tell me. What did he mean?”

  “Egypt is not pharaoh, Mara, nor is it this long, green valley with its black mud that is so different from what I know. Egypt is neither the Nile nor the cities—”

  “Then what is it?”

  “You, Mara.”

  “I?”

  “And all the others—the people, all those you have told me of, and the fishermen yonder on the river, and the potters and carpenters and their like coming out of all those buildings far over there in what you call the City of the Dead—and their friends, and their kin. . . .” Inanni peered into Mara’s face and shook her head sadly. “Alas, that means nothing to you, does it? In your life you have had neither friends nor kin.”

  “Nor have I needed them!” retorted Mara. Pity, like honey, could become too sweet on the tongue. She half turned away from Inanni, her elbows on the balustrade and her eyes—in spite of herself—on the stream of tiny white-clad figures winding through the streets far over yonder, who had suddenly become not mere figures but human beings, with friends and kin and homes to go to.

  “Nay, perhaps you have not needed them,” said Inanni gently. “But many others do. I will tell you a little story. When my father was a young man there came a great famine over Canaan, over all of Syria, and many flocks perished in the drought, and there were only a few who made harvest that year, and had grain in their storehouses. And my father, who had been king for only a little while then, but who was very wise, called in these men and showed them the poor, starving in the streets. And then he bade them bring their grain to his storehouses and their flocks to his pastures, and they did so, and until the famine passed, rich and poor shared alike from the common store, which my father divided among them. They did not do it for my father, Mara, but that Canaan might live.”

  “And did it live?”

  “Aye. The enemy from the North swept down and conquered many nations that year, when all were weak from the famine. But in Canaan there were strong men to defend the cities.”

  The white-clad stream had all but disappeared in the blue dusk, and the sky was a vault of purple. Mara sighed and turned away from the balustrade with a shrug.

  “It is a touching story, my princess—if they spoke truth. But what has it to do with Egypt? We have no famine, nor can I imagine any rich noble I have met who would share so much as a grain of corn with those tomb workers yonder. Consider my well-beloved master. Hai! I can see him dividing his goods with his grooms and servants . . .” Mara broke off, struck by a sudden unpleasant thought. Her last encounter with Lord Nahereh had directly followed an audience with the king. If the Libyan came tonight . . . “My princess, let us go down now,” she said hurriedly. “It grows dark. And I, too, have a story to invent—one so convincing it will pass for truth! Come, let us go down, I must think—”

  “Very well, Mara,” said Inanni softly. “We will go down.” She was silent as they hurried down the stairs and along the hall. But at the door to her apartments she stopped, putting a gentle hand on Mara’s arm. “Mara, I hope all goes well with you.”

  “Do not fear for me, my princess. I’ll think of something. Stay, I even have a talisman to protect me!” Smiling, she plunged her hand into her sash and triumphantly produced the ring, which she slipped onto her finger.

  “It will bring good luck?”

  “Provided I do not wear it in the wrong company,” said Mara drily. “And now I will tell you something, though I know not if it’s wise to do so. . . .” She hesitated, then whispered rapidly, “The ring brought you luck today, as well as me. If all goes well—if all this we have talked of tonight comes to pass, and the king rules Egypt—then you need stay here and be homesick no longer, in this land you hate.”

  “They will—send me home?” whispered Inanni incredulously.

  “I have Sheftu’s promise on it. There, do not look so, or everyone will guess what I have told you! It is only an ‘if,’ you know. You must not hope too hard.”

  “Ah, Mara, I will try not, thank you, thank you—” Inanni tried to say mor
e, failed, and hiding the radiance of her face beneath one of her many shawls, hurried through the door and into her chambers.

  The Syrian women were still at their embroidering and chattering, but Inanni passed through their midst and went directly to her bedroom. I’m glad I told her, thought Mara. Very glad. . . . Wrenching her mind back to her own affairs, she headed for her room. What was she going to tell that crocodile of a Nahereh? She needed time to think. Perhaps, she reflected as she pushed aside the tapestry that curtained her door, I could accuse that spying little scribe of something or other. Say he was acting suspicious, friendly to the king. She grinned as she closed the door behind her and turned into the room. Pompous little donkey! He would not last long if—

  Her thoughts broke off with a jolt. Chadzar the Libyan was leaning stolidly against the far wall, waiting for her.

  For a moment she felt an overpowering desire to whirl around, dash back through the door, and seek safety in that crowd of Syrians until the last one went to bed. A well-developed instinct for self-preservation prevented her. If she betrayed the least sign of panic . . .

  She heard her own voice speaking coolly, almost indifferently. “You come very early.”

  “I come when I’m sent,” grunted Chadzar. “Get a cloak.”

  “But I’m not ready yet. I came only to fetch the board for hounds and jackals. The Syrian expects me to entertain her until bedtime.”

  “That’s none of my affair.”

  He pushed away from the wall and walked forward, while Mara cast about desperately for some other excuse to delay, to gain time. He scowled at her, switching his whip impatiently against his sandal. “Make haste! Fetch a cloak!”